


Mission to Dol Guldur

by Dak



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dol Guldur, Greenwood, Istari - Freeform, Lothlórien, Middle Earth, Nazgul - Freeform, Unfinished Tales, Wizards, Woodland Realm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:08:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dak/pseuds/Dak
Summary: A chronicle of the events leading up to and following Gandalf the Grey's journey into the dark fortress of Dol Guldur in the year 2063 of the Third Age under the Sun.





	1. Chapter 1

**Act I: Mirkwood**

 

The great trees of Mirkwood creaked and groaned in the afternoon breeze. The rays of the afternoon sun barely made it through the thick canopy of the great forest, filling the clearings beneath the trees with a dull twilight. Within one such clearing lay an aged outpost, its cracked stone walls painted grey under the murky light. Standing a full five stories tall, the stilted structure rose through the upper reaches of the forest, its stone summit thrusting beyond the nearby treetops, allowing its occupants to survey the lay of the land for many miles.

 

No watchers stood on the summit of this tower though. The cobblestone roof was desolate and dusty; clearly no one had set foot on it in some time. The robust wall surrounding the observation platform was strangled with dark thorny vines that were creeping up the sides of the tower. The afternoon breeze grew into a strong wind that blew through the wide clearing, scattering leaves with great force and filling the empty structure with a mournful wail.

 

Even as the wind was tearing through the wide dell, the faint sound of booted feet on solid flagstones began to echo through the forest. The steps grew steadily louder and suddenly there were soldiers in the clearing. Marching in from the Great Forest Road that stretched throughout Mirkwood came two dozen Elven warriors. Garbed in the light brown tunics and breeches that blended naturally with the forest, each of the warriors bore a pair of short swords on hip-slung scabbards. In their hands, each Elven warrior held an elegantly carved longbow with a quiver of arrows slung on their backs.

 

The Elves streamed into the clearing, swiftly approaching the abandoned watchtower. As they neared the derelict structure, one of the Elves, blond-haired and blue-eyed with a lithe build, called out in a clear voice.

 

“Hail Captain Navari!”

 

His greeting resounded throughout the clearing, echoing off the solid walls of the keep. But the echo of his own voice was the only response he received. Urgent concern flashed across the blonde Elf’s smooth features and his handsome face contorted in apprehension. He turned swiftly to the tall dark-haired Elf that stood mere feet away from him. 

 

“Captain Orcin, take half the troops and scout the clearing,” he commanded sharply, “The rest of you, come with me!”

 

The captain’s hazel eyes flashed in alarm and he nodded sharply, “Yes, my Lord Legolas,” he replied in a strong voice. Turning to his company, he uttered sharp commands and half of the Elves broke formation and fanned out swiftly to the edges of the clearing, their sharp steel blades ringing on their scabbards as they raised them to guard.

 

As his troops secured the perimeter, Legolas strode towards the silent keep, his troops right behind him, their leather boots crunched on the dead leaves that blanketed the forest floor. His pale hands darted down to the gilded sheaths at his hip and he withdrew the twin blades of silver steel that shone in the murky twilight of Mirkwood.

 

His soldiers did the same and they quickly came to the foot of the tower. Apprehension crept along Legolas’s spine as he surveyed the entrance of the fortification in shock. The implacable carved door of the watchtower had been ripped from its wrought-iron hinges and cast aside.

 

Barking an order to his soldiers to be on guard, Legolas entered the open tower first, his blade held aloft at guard. He crossed the threshold into the darkened foyer of the tower and immediately glanced around the darkened room, his Elven eyes seeing quite clearly in the dimly lit chamber. His troops spread out into the main floor of the keep, scouting out the storerooms and armories located on the ground floor.

 

“My Lord,” shouted one of the Elves from the direction of the armory, “We have found bodies!”

 

Lowering his sword to his side, Legolas strode towards the source of the voice, turning down a dark musty hallway and coming to a small chamber that had held the weapons for the Woodland garrison that had been stationed at the tower. Bursting into the small room, Legolas’s eyes immediately darted to the two Elven warriors who occupied the chamber, one of whom was knelt over a pair of decaying skeletons.

 

Both bodies were draped in ragged garments of auburn similar to the ones worn by Legolas and his troops. A look of fury came to the Elven-Prince’s face and he crouched down next to the corpses of his kin.

 

“How long have they been dead, Kielen?” the Prince asked the soldier who was also kneeling.

 

“At least a month, my Lord,” Kielen replied, his smooth features recoiling with dismay at the low fate that had befallen their brethren. The warrior’s fingers brushed against the mouldering flesh of one of the corpses and lifted it to his nose, sniffing sharply.

 

“They were poisoned,” he said sharply and Legolas’s eyes widened in sudden revelation.

 

“Spiders!” he spat in anger. Springing to his feet he looked down at the bodies, “Kielen, Brene, see to our brother’s burial,” he said. Turning to the doorway he stepped into the darkened hallway and rushed into the main chamber of the tower.

 

Several of his soldiers remained there, while the others were scouting the upper levels.

 

“Meilen, Eeinen, gather your weapons and provender,” the Prince commanded to two of his soldiers, a tall dark-haired male and a slightly shorter female with blonde hair a shade darker that Legolas’s. The two warriors moved to comply and Legolas continued, “Return to the King’s Halls with all speed,” he ordered, “Inform his Highness that the spiders have returned to our Southern borders.”

 

Meilen and Eeinen snapped to attention, their provender stowed in their hip-pouches and their longbows slung over their shoulders.

 

“Tell the King that the spiders assaulted the Tower of Serien and slew the entire garrison. He must send additional troops to the Southern marches immediately so we can reinforce our outpost and reaffirm our borders.”

 

When both Elves nodded their understanding, Legolas looked at them, “Run like the wind,” he said, “The sooner we get reinforcements the better.”

 

The soldiers complied and raced out of the keep, their footsteps growing fainter by the second. Once he was satisfied that the messengers were on their way to his father’s halls, Legolas turned to one of the remaining soldiers in the atrium.

 

“Tell Captain Orcin that Captain Navari and his troops were killed by the spiders,” he said to the soldier, “Have him secure the forest perimeter and then join me in the tower. The soldier complied and as he exited the room Legolas ascended the creaking stairs to the second level of the tower, bracing himself to witness the tragic fates of more of his kin.

 

Legolas spent the next hour surveying the remaining four levels of the tower, witnessing the decaying remains of two score of Woodland Elves including Captain Navari, who had died on the third level of the tower from a gaping wound to his abdomen. The Elven-Prince quickly put his soldiers to work clearing the keep of the dead and burying them as was the Elvish tradition.

 

As the full score of Elves in the dell hurried about burying their brethren and restoring order to the fortress, Legolas climbed the stairs to the summit of the tower and stood upon the dull granite roof, staring out at the great fastness of Mirkwood. He stood there for many minutes, surveying the dimming light of the afternoon sun through the dark canopies of the trees.

 

This far from the halls of the King, the great trees were dark and twisted, their branches weighed down by the dark leaves. Fell things stirred under the woods in this part of the forest. When the darkness had first descended on the Greenwood over a thousand years ago, the Woodland Elves had built many towers like the one Legolas currently stood on to keep an eye on their borders. For near the South end of Mirkwood stood a dark tower, many stories taller than the Tower of Serien. Within that tower lurked a dark sorcerer who was known only as the Necromancer. It was from that fell place that the spiders spawned and came forth into the forest.

 

As the Elven-Prince cast his gaze upon the trees his eyes darted here and there, looking for any sign of the spiders that had killed Navari’s troops. After nearly an hour of surveying the landscape from the high perch and collecting his thoughts, Legolas heard the sound of light footsteps behind him and turned to see the tall broad-shouldered form of Captain Orcin ascend the last of the steps and emerge on the parapet.

 

“Report,” Legolas said in a curt tone, his nerves on edge from being so close to the Tower of the Necromancer.

 

“I have four of our soldiers burying our comrades,” Orcin said, “I have a full dozen still patrolling the edge of the dene and the rest are taking stock of what remains in the tower and are making it habitable again.”

 

Legolas nodded approvingly, “Good work, Captain,” he said in a milder tone, “Have half of the patrol move up to the parapet and keep an eye on the forest from high up. Have the rest stand guard around the tower entrance.”

 

“I will do so at once, my Lord,” Orcin replied.

 

“Good,” Legolas said, then when Orcin remained on the tower roof, continued, “You have a question.”

 

“Yes, my Lord,” the captain said hesitantly, “Do you think we will be attacked here?”

 

Legolas frowned and his green eyes glimmered with uncertainty, “I cannot be sure,” he said after a moment, “Clearly the spiders haven’t been here since they slew Navari and his comrades…”

 

His voice trailed off as he considered the situation, “And yet, I sense an ill omen about this place.” He shook his head in consternation, “I do not know what it is, but I know we must be on our guard.”

 

Even as the Elven-Prince uttered the words, in the dark branches of one of the twisted trees, a dark-feathered raven gazed upon the Prince and his Captain, its blood-red eyes watching them with great interest. Then, as the Elven-Prince’s gaze was diverted from the trees, it spread its dark wings and took to the air, flapping hard and flying swiftly towards the South.

 

The dark avian crossed league upon league of forest, soaring over the darkened treetops, its black wings beating furiously. Upon length, the raven reached a vast clearing in the Southern heart of Mirkwood. The darkness appeared to be strongest in this part of the forest with the trees twisted almost beyond recognition and the dark thorny vines choking the old stone pathway that wound between the trees.

 

At the edge of the clearing the twisted trees fell away and the cracked stone path led into the vast circle that was devoid of any trees. The ground in the heart of the circle steeped sharply upwards, forming a great bald hill upon which stood a mighty tower of stone. The old stone road wound up the hill and came straight to the great doors of the tower which were sealed shut, twin slabs of ebon stone barring entrance to all.

 

Built from once-majestic basalt, the tower was old and worn, it’s stone walls dulled with age. The lower stories were wide and squat, spreading over the entire summit of the hill. The thorny vines had completely infested the lower ramparts, twisting in through shattered windows and winding around crumbling parapets. From the fifth story onwards, the tower grew slimmer and taller, stretching high above the treetops of the surrounding forest. The stone of the upper levels seemed less worn and more robust with the slate-grey walls free of vines and decay.

 

The structure culminated at the twelfth story, coming to a dark stony point with a high platform that looked out over the great fastness of Mirkwood. The sleek grey stone was virtually untouched by age at the summit and there were narrow windows carved into the mighty walls. The raven soared up to one of the jagged gaps in the unforgiving stone and flew into the summit chamber.

 

The great hall was vast, with a high vaulted ceiling and tattered ruins of ancient tapestries lining the walls. At the rear of the chamber, past a high altar of carved obsidian was an intricately carved throne of glassy black obsidian. Upon the throne sat a great figure, taller than any man with long spindly limbs and a skeletally-thin frame. The figure was cloaked entirely in robes of pure ebony with its face concealed beneath a wide cowl. The raven flew close and the shadow on the throne reached out with a thin clawed hand that grasped at the raven.

 

The raven settled onto the coal-black flesh of the shadow’s hands and cawed at it fiercely. Beneath the richly embroidered cowl a pair of crimson orbs flashed at the raven’s words. A low hiss came from the cloaked figure and it barked a command in a barbarous tongue. From the deep shadows of the throne room, a second cloaked figure, lesser than the first one, hissed in compliance and moved to leave the room, it’s black robes gliding along the cracked stone floor.

 

The raven flapped its wings and soared into the high reaches of the audience chamber, flying towards a window. With its mission complete, the evil bird fled the dark tower with all the haste it could muster, flying off into the darkening sky.

 

 

Hours later the Sun was dipping beneath the fold of the Earth and the twilight that managed to penetrate the great canopy of Mirkwood had faded to pitch blackness. The Tower of Serien had been put to order by the Sylvan Elves of Legolas’s company and the Prince of Mirkwood sat in what had been Captain Navari’s personal quarters.

 

The Prince was seated at a hand carved wooden table made by a carpenter in the King’s Halls. Captain Orcin was seated across from him and the two were sharing a spare meal made from some of the intact provender the Elves had found in the tower’s storeroom.

 

Legolas slowly devoured a piece of white cheese and toyed with a small chunk of salted pork, his manner tense and alert. A mild Eastern wind was whispering through the dell and caressing the Tower of Serien with a featherlike touch. The deep green curtains that lined the windows in the Captain’s Quarters fluttered in the light breeze. Legolas tensed at the sound and threw the morsel back onto the plate, his entire body taught with anxiety

 

“My Lord, what is it?” Orcin asked, his tone laden with concern. The Elven Captain had fought alongside Legolas for over a century and had never seen the Prince look so worried.

 

Rising from his chair, Legolas strode over to the open window that looked out over the Southern edge of the dene. Planting his hands on the sill, he pushed his head outward and glanced around the clearing. Night had fallen on the dell hours ago and dark clouds had drifted in from the East to cover the Moon, smothering its light and shrouding the forest in a deep darkness that even Legolas’s Elven-eyes had difficulty penetrating.

 

“My Lord, we have the entire company on full alert,” Orcin said in a reassuring tone, “Meilen and Eeinen will reach the King’s Halls soon and his Highness will dispatch us reinforcements with haste.”

 

The Prince of Mirkwood withdrew from the window and faced his subordinate, “Perhaps,” he allowed, “But the shadow of Dol Guldur grows stronger and with it the spiders grow bolder.”

 

He stepped to the small cabinet set against the far wall and withdrew a small flask of cordial. Setting it down on the table, the Prince uncorked the crystal stopper and poured a small allotment of the ruby-red fluid into his tin travel-cup and then poured an equal quantity into Orcin’s.

 

“We will not rest until our reinforcements arrive,” Legolas stated, “The miruvor will lend us strength to continue the watch.”

 

Captain Orcin nodded in acknowledgement of his Prince’s command and was raising the steel vessel to his lips when a loud scream tore through the clearing. Legolas was back at the window in an instant, his keen Elven-eyes darting across the clearing, seeking the source of the scream. In the dark gloom of the night it took the Prince several moments to spot the source. One of the patrolling Elves was lying on the ground near the edge of the dene, blood pouring from his ankle, belly and neck. A trio of great dark spiders were crawling over his body, their long hairy limbs pinning the soldier down, their sharp mandibles tearing open his flesh and feasting on his blood.

 

“Sound the alarm!” Legolas shouted at Orcin but even as he spoke, an Elf-horn blasted through the clearing in the sharp bleat that warned of an imminent attack.

 

“Go and call the sentries back into the tower,” Legolas ordered, “As soon as they’re inside, bar the door and lock it at once!”

 

Captain Orcin nodded and raced out the room and down the stairs of the tower, the tin cup of miruvor lying on the floor, its precious contents spilling along the worn flagstones. Legolas took one last look out the window and saw over a dozen spiders spilling out of the twisted trees at the edge of the dell, crawling over the body of the sentry and scurrying towards the tower with all haste. Pulling away from the window, the Prince of Mirkwood seized the wooden shutters and slammed them closed, pulling the locking bar down on them and sealing the portico.

 

Satisfied that at least one entrance to the tower was closed to the fell beasts, Legolas darted into the corridor and raced up the stone stairs to the summit of the tower, his hand closing on the hilts of his twin blades. Sprinting up the final flight of stairs, the Prince emerged on the parapet to find the four archers on the summit standing near the Southern edge, loosing their steel-tipped arrows at the spiders that were now swarming towards the base of the tower.

 

A trio of arrows flew from the bows of the Elven archers and struck one of the great spiders in two limbs and the face.

 

“Aim for the eyes,” Legolas shouted, for he had faced the spiders of Mirkwood before and knew their weaknesses well.

 

The soldiers obeyed and unleashed a fresh hail of arrows at the spiders that had now reached the base of the tower and were beginning to climb up the sheer stone walls. Legolas reached back and unfastened his own longbow from the harness on his back and readied the weapon, nocking a slender steel-tipped arrow. Taking aim with practiced fingers, he drew back the string and let the deadly missile fly. Legolas’s archery skills were unparalleled in Mirkwood and his arrow struck its mark dead on, burying itself in the glassy eye of one of the approaching spiders.

 

The fell creature screeched in pain and thrashed on the forest floor, its eight hairy limbs thrashing about in agony. But even as Legolas and his soldiers’ unleashed volley after volley on the spiders, another sound rang through the clearing. The sharp cry of an Elvish horn carried through the battle in the dell, not the short, sharp call of alarm, but the long twin bleats that signified more approaching enemies. Turning away from the lip of the tower, Legolas rushed to the East edge of the observation platform and stared down at the base of the tower.

 

Twenty meters below, a vicious battle was taking place on the forest floor as two score of dark figures were fighting against the Elven sentries, having slain several of them already. Captain Orcin was among the survivors and was fighting with a great ferocity, his shining steel blades slicing into the foul flesh of their foes. As the captain parried an attack and stabbed his assailant deep in the stomach, the creature cried out in pain and suddenly Legolas knew what the attackers were.

 

Though the shadows of the night hid their forms from his Elvish eyes, Legolas knew the cry of Orcs all too well. Nocking another arrow, he took swift aim and fired, striking one of the attacking Orcs straight between the eyes. With a scream that could be heard even from twenty meters up, the Orc keeled over, collapsing on the forest floor. The Orc’s companions roared in fury and intensified their attack, hacking slashing with fury, their jagged blades shrouded in the pitch-black curtain of night.

 

The Elves on the ground showed no sign of fear, meeting their enemies head-on, their silver vanes gleaming with cold silver light, a beacon in the darkness that filled the clearing. Nocking another arrow, Legolas targeted the torso of another Orc and fired, the shaft clearing the distance in seconds and striking the Orc’s upper torso. The creature shrieked in pain and toppled over, its pale hands clutching its chest.

 

As he reached for another arrow, Legolas turned to the youngest of the four guards that were holding off the spider advance from the South.

 

“Haiven, run to the ground and seal the doors,” he shouted over the din in the clearing.

 

The young Elf he addressed had short blonde hair and small grey eyes that had not yet lost their innocence. At his Prince’s command, he lowered his longbow and dashed down the stairs into the depths of the tower.

 

“Orcin!” Legolas shouted from the rooftop, pitching his voice to carry over the din of battle.

 

“Fall back to the tower!” he ordered.

 

The dark-haired captain’s hazel eyes flashed in acknowledgement and he shouted to his few remaining warriors to retreat. Even as the Elves on the ground were retreating towards the threshold of the tower the Orcs advanced, baying and hissing, their yellowing teeth bared and their crude blades slashing.

 

Fitting another arrow to his bow, Legolas unleashed a swift flurry of shots at the advancing Orcs, spending the remaining missiles in his quiver in rapid succession, injuring and killing Orc after Orc, covering the retreat of his soldiers with great success. The Elven prince watched Orcin and the two other survivors escape into the stony sanctuary of the tower and heard the hastily repaired door of the keep slam shut with a resounding thud and the cool metallic clicks of the locks.

 

A moment later another sound rang through the clearing, the guards on the southern edge of the parapet cried out in shock and Legolas spun to see a pair of spiders climbing over the turret wall, spitting poison at the two guards that remained on their feet. The third was already on the cracked stone floor, clutching at his eyes in agony, his entire face covered in the black oily venom of the spiders.

 

Cursing in Sindarin, the Prince of Mirkwood reached back for an arrow, raising his longbow to guard and felt a tremor of astonishment when he felt nothing but air in his quiver. Spitting out another curse, Legolas tossed his useless bow aside and drew his twin knives from their gilded casings and leapt into the fray.

 

Leaping towards the larger of the two spiders, Legolas slashed at the creature’s closest legs, severing two of its eight legs in a flash. The spider keened in anguish and spat a fresh gob of venom at the Elf-Prince. Twisting his lithe body to the side, Legolas narrowly avoided the stream of poisonous fluid and darted in close to the spider’s great hairy body, too close for the beast to spit its deadly secretions at him. The arachnid screeched in pained fury and tried to bat at Legolas with its closest leg. Spinning his knives in his deft hands, Legolas severed the offending limb with one shining blade and with a swift thrust, he plunged the second razor-sharp knife through the spider’s hairy forehead and right into its brain.

 

The dark abomination gave a low chitter of pain and then it went limp, its five remaining limbs going slack in death. Spinning on one foot, Legolas delivered a solid kick to the dead arachnid’s torso and sent flying off the tower to join its dead comrades on the forest floor. Turning to the two remaining guards, Legolas saw that they had killed the other spider and were now tending to their fallen companion.

 

“Kielen, take Brene to the healer’s chamber on the third floor,” Legolas ordered, and as the Elf moved to comply, a loud skittering filled the air. Darting back to the wall, Legolas looked down to see a dozen more spiders crawling up the wall, their sharp black pincers snapping hungrily. Gritting his teeth in frustration, the Prince of Mirkwood looked at the last guard standing on the tower.

 

“Retreat, Jerin!” he said with reluctance, “We cannot stand against their numbers.”

 

The lone guard nodded and Legolas gestured for him to descend the stairs. As he did, Legolas snatched up his discarded bow and followed the soldier into the stairway, slamming the door shut behind him, throwing down both the locking bolts. Hoping that the sturdy barrier would impede the spider’s progress into the tower, the Prince of Mirkwood descended to the third floor swiftly, Jerin right behind him.

 

Kielen had already laid Brene out on one of the two sickbeds in the tower’s small infirmary. The young Elf was writhing on the wooden bedframe, deep in the throes of venom shock. Legolas looked upon his comrade’s prone form with sympathy. He had been a victim of the spider venom nearly two centuries ago and he remembered well the excruciating pain that the poison inflicted.

 

“Jerin, check the healer’s cupboard for any anti-venin,” Legolas ordered, hoping that the garrison hadn’t used up all their healing salves and medicines in the first attack. Stepping closer, he crouched over Brene’s thrashing form, surveying the injured soldier’s condition. Brene’s smooth handsome face was contorted in agony and although Kielen had wiped the venom from his friend’s face with a cool wet cloth, the caustic fluid had left acid scars on the young Elf’s face.

 

A resounding crash from the lower levels of the keep drew Legolas’s attention and he stepped away from the wounded soldier.

 

“Tend to our friend,” Legolas instructed Kielen. Turning to Jerin who had been unable to find any salve in the medicine cupboard, Legolas spoke sharply, “Jerin, with me.”

 

The Elven-Prince and his comrade descended the rest of the stairs to the first floor swiftly. Stepping onto the stone floor, Legolas came to the main foyer and saw Captain Orcin and his two soldiers along with Haiven stacking whatever furniture they could find against the heavy main door of the tower. Upon sighting his Prince, Orcin stepped away from the door and saluted, “My Lord, the Orcs are assaulting the door as we speak.”

 

Legolas nodded and surveyed the two soldiers who were barring the door with more objects, Jerin moving to assist them.

 

“Is this all that remains of our force?” Legolas asked.

 

Orcin nodded grimly, “We were sorely outnumbered, my Lord. We lost a dozen soldiers against the Orcs, and even though we managed to slay at least twice that number, there are still a full score out there. The captain was nursing a gash on his cheek and there was a hastily-bound wound on his upper left thigh.

 

Legolas shook his head, “You did all that you could, Captain.”

 

He studied the heavily barred door with his keen blue eyes, assessing the strength of the barrier.

 

“I had hoped to hold the tower until reinforcements came, but now I see that I foolishly underestimated the strength of our Enemy.”

 

Orcin stepped closer to Legolas and grasped the Prince’s arm in a gesture of affection, “Do not give up, _mellon_.”

 

The Captain’s strong arm squeezed Legolas’s bicep in a reassuring gesture, “We have barred the door beyond the efforts of these feeble Orcs. There are many arrows left in the armoury and we have several skilled bowmen left. We _can_ hold this fortress.”

 

Legolas gave his friend a smile and nodded, “We will have to try,” he conceded, “Brene was poisoned by one of the spiders and is in a perilous state.”

 

Concern crept into Orcin’s eyes, both he and Legolas had fought beside the raven-haired Brene before and they knew him to be a doughty warrior and a particularly skilled archer.

 

“Have we no healing poultices or salves in the infirmary?” Orcin asked.

 

Legolas shook his head, “The stores must have been depleted in the first spider assault.”

 

The Prince abruptly straightened, “But Brene is in good hands with Kielen, we must focus on our defences.”

 

He turned to the soldiers barring the door, “Jerin, come with me. The rest of you, stay here and keep this door secure.”

 

Jerin came away from the door and Legolas gave Orcin a grim look, “Jerin and I will try to thin the enemy from the crenellations on the fourth floor. Hold the door fast and we will slay the enemy swiftly.”

 

Orcin pressed his hand against his chest in salute and bowed. Legolas returned the Captain’s gesture and then he turned away from his soldiers, racing up the stairs, Jerin following closely behind him.

 

The two Elves made it to the narrow windows on the fourth floor that faced out of the four walls of the tower. Having stopped by the armoury on their way up, both warriors bore a fresh quiver of arrows on their backs and held several more in their hands. Setting their spare arrows, Legolas and Jerin hurried to the three thin slits that had been carved in the North Wall of the tower. Each of them took a position at one of the crenellations and Legolas peered out through the crack at the dark figures that were gathered before the heavy door of the tower.

 

The still air in the dell suddenly began to stir and a cool breeze wafted in from the West. Catching the black clouds that hung over the besieged tower, the westerly winds nudged them towards the North and as they floated away, the clean white light of the Moon shine down on the clearing, illuminating the entire dene in pearly, clear moonlight.

 

For the first time since the battle had begun, Legolas could see the attackers clearly. Clad in tattered leathers and crude iron armour, the attackers were all Orcs. Most were pale-skinned with sharp yellow teeth and squinty dark eyes. They clutched inelegant yet sharp blades and several of them were pounding heavy clubs against the sealed door, trying in vain to penetrate the barrier so they could slay their few remaining foes.

 

Narrowing his eyes in the sight of his hated enemies, Legolas quickly nocked an arrow and took careful aim before letting it fly. The arrow flew swift and true and struck one of the baying Orcs in it’s throbbing throat. The foul creature gurgling and screamed at the fatal wound and fell to the forest floor, it's body twitching furiously in its death throes. The Orcs screeched shock as one and they glanced up, their beady eyes blinking furiously in the unwelcome moonlight, trying to spot the source of the attack. Readying another arrow, Legolas fired again, this time striking a blinking Orc right in the eyeball and dropping it to the forest floor to join over a score of it’s deceased companions with an unceremonious thud.

 

Jerin had taken up his bow as well, and the two archers unleashed a furious hail of arrows, striking down Orc after Orc in rapid succession. The pale-skinned abominations roared in shock and quickly scattered, taking cover to avoid the deadly arrows of the Elves. Legolas and Jerin continued their onslaught, aiming their bows at near-impossible angles to skewer Orc after Orc with lethal shots.

 

The surviving Orcs drew deeper into the surrounding forest until even the supernaturally keen eyes of the Elves could not spot them amongst the dark, twisted trees. Legolas grinned at the sight of the Orc-free clearing and his heart filled with triumph at having finally driven off the enemy.

 

“Victory!” he shouted his handsome face alight with joy, “Well done, _mellon-nin_!”

 

Jerin turned towards the Prince and smiled back, his bow dipping low towards the floor, “Thank you, my Lord,” he replied, “The sacrifice of our comrades will be…”

 

He never finished his sentence as a great black foreleg thrust though the narrow window behind Jerin and struck him in the head with great force, driving him to the ground with a vicious crunch. The stone wall shook against the force of the spider trying to force its way through the narrow opening.

 

Legolas stood frozen for a single moment, shocked that the mindless beast had managed to crawl along the side of the tower and had possessed the cunning to enter through the slender gap. The creature withdrew its leg and Legolas snapped out of his reverie, nocking an arrow with blinding speed and when the spider pushed its snarling head through the window, Legolas loosed an arrow at point-blank range, sending the razor-sharp bolt straight into the arachnid’s skull.

 

The spider keened and wailed, its inky black eyes going dull and lifeless. A moment later the dying creature lost its grip on the tower wall and plummeted to the forest floor with a soft thud. Even as the spider was falling away, Legolas was crouching on the ground next to his fallen comrade. The spider’s blow had been powerful enough to knock Jerin to the ground and had drawn blood. Legolas swiftly swept his arm beneath his comrade’s head and elevated it gently.

 

“My-my Lord,” Jerin managed to gasp.

 

“Save your strength, _mellon_ ,” Legolas said softly, his eyes studying the warrior’s wound carefully.

 

“I-I feel…” Jerin mumbled and his pale green eyes began to flutter closed.

 

“No!” Legolas shouted, “Hold on my friend!”

 

Jerin let out a single pained breath and then all light left the Elf’s emerald eyes.

 

Legolas just stared at the motionless body of his friend, his mouth going dry with grief and shock. Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried to gather his strength, fighting to keep his grief from overpowering him. Gathering his inner calm, Legolas opened his eyes and looked upon the lifeless form of his friend. Whispering a prayer to Mandos for his friend's _fea_ , Legolas closed Jerin’s blank eyes and lay his comrade down on the stone floor gently.

 

He was about to leave the viewing gallery to update Captain Orcin when the sharp sound of a horn reached his ears. It was not the smooth melodic call of an Elf instrument however, but a loud and brutal cry. Spinning on his heel, he returned to the window and for the second time that evening was frozen in shock.

 

Standing at the mouth of the clearing was a great black Orc. Standing a full six feet tall, the creature had the clean-limbed body of a man with the yellow-eyed face of an Orc. A long, flat-bladed sword was clutched in his right hand and in his left was a crudely fashioned horn, made of bone and decorated with the teeth of man and beast alike. The great Orc raised the horn his blood-red lips and blew another mighty blast on it. Man-shaped figures began to shuffle out of the forest and before Legolas could blink, dozens of Orcs were swarming back into the clearing once more. Those who had fled from the Elvish arrows had returned to battle, reinvigorated by the call of their apparent commander.

 

The Orc commander stepped into the clearing as the lesser Orcs began teeming around the tower again. Determined to avenge his fallen comrades, Legolas seized his bow with renewed vigour and sent an arrow flying towards one of the baying Orcs, felling it immediately. The remaining Orcs bellowed in shock and confusion, but their black-skinned leader pulled a mighty compound bow off his back and swiftly fitted a black-feathered arrow into it and sent it flying straight towards Legolas’s position. The Elven-Prince raised an eyebrow at the incredulous shot, doubting the Orc leader’s ability to send the arrow through the slim gap in the wall.

 

The black arrow shot straight towards the crenellation and to Legolas’s dismay, shot right through the gap and towards his skull. The Prince’s amazing reflexes kicked in and he threw himself to the side, the deadly dart missing him by mere millimetres and embedding itself in the far wall.

 

Picking himself up off the stone floor, Legolas returned to his feet, standing well away from the narrow window. Thanking the Valar for his narrow escape, the Elf-Prince felt a sting of pain on his face and his hand reached up to brush the right side of his cheek only to come away bloodied. His eyes widened in surprise at the realization that the Orc had actually managed to wound him.

 

Legolas wiped his bloody hand on the nearest stone wall and peered down at the clearing from a safe angle. The Orcs were clustered around the doorway and their massive leader was standing behind them, barking orders in a language that Legolas recognized from his childhood lessons as the Black Speech of Mordor. His Elf eyes suddenly spied more movement from the edge of the clearing and a half-dozen Orcs entered the dell.

 

The newcomers were tall and powerfully built, clad in burnished dark armor and iron helms. Bearing a great resemblance to the Black Commander, the fierce-looking brutes bore upon their shoulders a great black slab of obsidian. The massive block of obsidian stone was carved with many intricate designs and the front end resembled the head of a great serpent, with piercing eyes and sharp teeth.

 

The commander bellowed an order and the smaller Orcs backed away from the great door of the tower and the six Black Orcs charged the wooden door with a great roar of rage. The barrier buckled on its metal hinges, the wooden surface splintering under the ferocious assault.

 

Not needing to see any more, Legolas threw himself from the room with great haste, rushing into the stairwell.

 

“Orcin!” he shouted in panic, “They're about to break in!” He dashed down the fourth floor stairs and landed on the third floor, racing for the next set, “Pull your warriors back before-!”

 

A great crack echoed throughout the tower followed by a mighty thud and the vicious snarls of Orcs. Legolas leapt down the next flight of stairs, intent on making it to the entrance hall and helping his soldiers to drive off the enemy. The sounds of Orc scimitars cleaving Elven flesh filled his ears and shouts of pain and death echoed up into the tower and Legolas knew that the last of his comrades was dead.

 

Fury and sorrow battled within him and for a long moment he was tempted to race down the stairs and avenge all of his fallen troops, to slay every last Orc in the tower. Reason fought off his rage and he calmed, knowing that he would never be able to prevail against the sheer number of enemies that he was facing. Not even his father, King Thranduil who was renowned as the greatest warrior in Mirkwood would be able to achieve victory over the sheer number of foes arrayed against him.

 

Duty crept to the forefront of the Prince’s mind and he knew that the only service he could render to his kingdom and his people now would be to flee and bring word of the Necromancer’s assault to his father, so that an army of Wood-Elves could be mustered to send the foul servants of the Necromancer fleeing back to Dol Guldur.

 

With that in mind, Legolas prepared to race towards a window, intending to climb down the vine-strangled walls and escape from the besieged fortress unseen. Even as he was dashing towards the nearest window, he heard a low cry of pain emanate from the upper levels of the tower and he suddenly remembered Kielen who was still trying to tend to poor Brene.

 

Abandoning his escape attempt, Legolas ran back up the rugged stone stairs, taking them two at a time until he arrived on the fourth floor. Bursting into the infirmary, Legolas seized Kielen quickly, pulling the young Elf to his feet.

 

“Ready Brene for travel, Kielen,” the Prince shouted, “The Orcs have broken into the tower and we must flee for our lives!”

 

Kielen stared up at his Prince in shock, “My Lord Legolas, Brene is no condition to travel.”

 

The fallen warrior groaned from his sickbed, beads of sweat running down the Elf’s brow, his pallor a sickly pale colour.

 

Appraising the poisoned soldier with practiced eyes, Legolas looked closely and he knew that his comrade would not last the night, whether they took him with them or not. Steeling himself for the difficult choice that lay ahead, Legolas looked Kielen directly in the eye.

 

“Gather your weapons and go to the window,” he commanded, “We must leave now or join our friends in the Hall of Mandos.”

 

Kielen’s innocent green eyes filled with confusion, “But…Brene,” he stammered, “What will you do?”

 

Legolas’s hand closed on the hilt of one of his silver knives, “What I have to,” he said in a steely tone.

 

When Kielen looked horrified, Legolas felt the need to offer an explanation.

 

“These Orcs serve the Necromancer of Dol Guldur, and for any living being to fall into his foul clutches is a fate far worse than death.”

 

Kielen still did not look convinced, but Legolas could hear heavy footfalls on the granite stairway and knew that they were out of time.

 

“Go to the window and start climbing down,” Legolas commanded, “Once you hit the ground, run into the forest and head for the halls of the King. I will be right behind you.”

 

Kielen hesitated, his eyes darting to Brene, compassion shining in his bright green orbs.

 

“Obey your Prince!” Legolas shouted, and Kielen complied, snatching up his bow and running towards the window. As the younger Elf was climbing over the windowsill, Legolas looked down on the dying Elf.

 

“Forgive me, Brene,” Legolas said quietly. Brene moaned in pain and twitched on the sickbed, clearly in agony.

 

Reaching out with one hand to grasp Brene’s spasming hand, Legolas gripped his comrades hand tightly in a comforting gesture and with his other hand, he withdrew one of his shining silver daggers.  Holding it over his friend, Legolas whispered a prayer to Mandos and then brought the blade down on Brene’s dying from, slitting his throat cleanly with a single stroke.

 

A gout of crimson blood spurted from the Elf’s carotid and Legolas squeezed the dying Elf’s hand one last time before releasing it and sheathing his knife. Brene gave a final jerk and then lay still, blood pouring from his wound and light fading from his eyes. Legolas felt sick at the mercy stroke he had been forced to deliver but he had no time to dwell on his nausea. The footsteps grew closer and with a great leap Legolas reached the window and nimbly climbed out of it, grabbing the thorny vines on the exterior of the tower. Using the vines as supports, the Prince of Mirkwood descended to the forest floor swiftly. Above him, he heard the shouts of surprise from the Orcs, but he ignored them and covered the last few meters to the forest floor with ease.

 

Landing on his feet, Legolas crouched low and crept into the underbrush quickly, his keen eye spotting Kielen waiting in the cover of the trees. Stepping lightly across the clearing, Legolas made it into the safety of the forest without incident. Turning to take one last look at the Tower of Serien, Legolas saw a half-dozen spiders crawling over the summit of the fortress and heard the victorious cries of Orcs filling the night. Gritting his teeth in anger, the Elven-Prince turned away and hurried into the forest, making for the safety of the King’s Halls as the Tower of Serien was captured for the second time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Act IIA: Greenwood**

 

The Sun was rising high into the clear blue expanse of the sky and its warm rays rained down on the great fields of Ninglor. The vast stretch of flat grasslands ran for leagues around, with the swift bubbling waters of the Old Ford lying behind it and the mighty trees of Mirkwood looming before it.

 

The plain was desolate save for a single figure, who was trudging along the beaten earth path that led between the grasses towards the forest in the distance. To mortal eyes the figure appeared to be an old Man, with a weary face, lined with age and care. A thick grey beard ran down to his chest, matching the grey-white hair that flowed down to his shoulders. The old man was clad in well-worn robes of ash-grey with a silvery blue scarf draped over his shoulder. A peaked hat of the same colour as his robes crowned the old man’s head and in his gnarled right hand he clutched a long staff made of dark knotted wood, intricate designs running along its wooden length, terminating in a snow-white crystal embedded in the head of the staff.

 

The aged Man continued forge ahead, leaning occasionally on his staff for strength. The sun had fallen from its high zenith by the time he reached the edge of the forest. At the brink, the greybeard paused for a moment to survey the great trees before him. The green grasses and white flowers of the Field of Ninglor fell away to the towering trees of Mirkwood. The earthen path that he had followed to the forest continued on into the forest itself, becoming a paved stone road that wound between the great eves of the trees.

 

Taking a deep breath, the old man forged ahead, stepping over the edge of the earthen path and onto the smooth paved stone of the Old Forest Road. The light of the Sun was muted beneath the great eves of the woods, but enough of the light shone through the bright green leaves and vines to fill the underbrush with a warm light that guided travellers along the smooth pathway. As the greybeard strode past the trees the songs of the birds and soft cries of deer and other woodland creatures played through the forest.

 

At length, the old man made his way through several twists and turns and came to a wide clearing where the path widened and the trees grew less numerous. Lying before him was a tall forbidding gate that rose to the tops of the trees. The posts of the gate were made smooth carved wood, with detailed inscriptions carved into the surface. Spanning the entire clearing, the gate itself was a single great slab of wood inlaid with elegantly twisted steel that wound itself in many mesmerizing designs.

 

A walkway ran along the top of the gate and over a dozen slim figures stood watch there, clad in cool silver armour that glimmered in the late afternoon sunlight.

 

“Halt!” cried one of the figures, a tall broad-shouldered male clad in shining silver armour with the smooth features of an Elf.

 

The old man came to a stop directly in front of the great gate and looked up at the Elf who had uttered the command. The Captain of the Gate turned to one of the other sentinels on the walkway and uttered a quick command in the Sindarin tongue.

 

The Captain himself disappeared from the top of the gate and a moment later a hidden door opened in the wall of the gate and a half-dozen Woodland Elves flowed out into the clearing and surrounded the old man swiftly. They all carried smoothly carved longbows and though none had nocked an arrow, their quivers were full of gleaming shafts that could be drawn on a moment’s notice. The silver-armored Captain was with them, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

 

“What brings a mortal such as yourself to the Woodland Realm?”  The Captain asked the old man in a haughty tone.

 

The old man frowned at the arrogance of his interlocutor and tightened his grip on his knotted staff.

 

“I wish to speak with your King,” the greybeard said in a deep gravelly voice, “On matters of utmost importance.”

 

The arrogant Elf raised an eyebrow at the old man’s response, “What would a mere mortal such as yourself have to say to His Majesty?”

 

The aged traveler’s brow furrowed at this comment and he muttered into his beard about the forgetfulness of Elves.

 

The Captain’s eyes narrowed, “What do you whisper under your breath, old man?”

 

When the traveler said nothing, the Elf’s blue eyes grew furious, “Very well, we’ll see if a few days in the royal dungeons will teach you some respect!” He gestured for his subordinates to seize the foreigner and they moved to comply when suddenly a high clear voice rang out through the dell.

 

“Stop!” the voice cried out, and the Elves immediately halted. Standing high above them on the summit of the gate was an older Elf, whose eyes shone with a deeper wisdom.

 

The commanding Elf looked down the soldiers on the ground, “Release this Man at once, Captain Hausein.”

 

Hausein immediately stepped away from the old man and the other Elves did the same. On the high wall, the older Elf nodded in satisfaction and then turned and vanished from the top of the gate. A moment later the hidden door opened seamlessly and the wise Elf stepped into the clearing.

 

The Elven Elder stepped through the newly opened gap and strode towards the party of seven, a wide smile on his face.

 

“Mae govannen, Mithrandir,” he called to the grey traveler in welcome.

 

A smile blossomed on Mithrandir’s weary face and he strode towards the elder and clasped his shoulders in welcome.

 

“Well met, Gerion” he said with a laugh, “It has been several centuries since I last walked under these eves.”

 

“Indeed,” said Gerion with a chuckle, “You have clearly been away for far too long if our guards mistook you for a vagabond.”

 

The Elven Captain standing nearby frowned and subtly dismissed his troops before stepping closer to Mithrandir and Gerion.

 

“Begging your pardon Lord Gerion,” Hausein said in a still-haughty tone, “But who is this old man that would warrant such a welcome from you?”

 

Mithrandir chuckled to himself and Gerion stepped around him to face Hausein.

 

“This is no dotard, Captain,” Gerion said in a forceful tone, “Mithrandir is a being of great knowledge and wisdom. He has traveled the lands of Middle-Earth for many centuries, offering guidance and aid to those in need.”

 

Hausein remained skeptical in the face of this proclamation and focused his sharp gaze on Mithrandir’s aged frame.

 

“If these claims are true, why have I never heard anything of you before today?”

 

Mithrandir’s smile faded and he returned Hausein’s gaze with his own deep blue eyes that seemed to contain hidden depths.

 

“It has been long since I last crossed the borders of Mirkwood,” Mithrandir said, and then he gave the Elven Commander a mischievous grin, “Perhaps you have heard of me by my more common name. I am known far and wide in the lands of Men as Gandalf the Grey.”

 

A glimmer of recognition shone in Hausein’s eyes and he took a thoughtful tone, “I have heard tales from the traders of Esgaroth of an old wizard that calls himself Gandalf. But I dismissed those rumours as the wild exaggerations of Men.”

 

His eyes bored deep into Gandalf’s and he nodded after a moment, “I see now that you are in fact more than you seem, Gandalf.” He turned his gaze to Gerion, “As the Captain of the Gate, I grant you entrance into the lands of the Woodland Realm, Gandalf the Grey.”

 

Gandalf smiled at Hausein, “My thanks, noble captain.”

 

Gerion gestured towards the open gate, “Come Mithrandir, I shall escort you to to the Halls of the King.”

 

Gandalf nodded and strode towards the opening, Gerion following closely behind him. The Elf and the Wizard passed through the boundary and entered the lands of the Wood-Elves. The smooth stone path led as far as the eye could see, a wide road that was bracketed on both sides by towering trees that boasted thick branches and  healthy green leaves. As Gandalf and Gerion traversed the Elven Road, the Wizard’s eyes were drawn to the many birds flying through the air and he breathed deeply, filling his aged lungs with the cool clean air that was always present within the Elvish woods.

 

“Your lands seem to be thriving,” Gandalf remarked to Gerion as they passed a number of fine houses and farms  that were surrounded by clear pools of water and bountiful fruit-trees.

 

Gerion looked at the settlements fondly, his wise grey eyes sweeping over the young Elflings playing by the ponds and the adult Elves plucking luscious red apples and sea-green pears from the stalwart trees.

 

“Yes,” Gerion said, “Our fortunes have been mostly fair in the six centuries since you last visited our lands.”

 

“The shadow of Dol Guldur must not weigh on your lands at all,” Gandalf said innocently.

 

Gerion stiffened for a moment but said nothing, continuing to walk at a brisk pace.

 

Gandalf kept up with him, suddenly full of vigour and strength and he gazed at Gerion with piercing blue eyes.

 

“That is strange indeed, for ill tidings of the growing reach of the Necromancer have reached my ears in recent years.”

 

Gerion increased his pace and kept his gaze affixed unwaveringly forward, refusing to meet Gandalf’s penetrating stare.

 

“I must ask King Thranduil how he has managed to keep the Shadow from encroaching on his borders,” Gandalf said, almost to himself.

 

Gerion halted his march abruptly and turned to face the Grey Wizard.

 

“The Darkness in the Forest does not touch our borders because we do not venture into the South anymore.” Gerion hissed, a look of concern crossing his aged features.

 

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “Then what has become of the Southern settlements?”

 

Gerion ripped his gaze away from Gandalf and stared at a nearby oak tree that had stood for a thousand years, it's branches bearing over a dozen blue-feathered avians.

 

“The Southern marches were emptied of citizens three centuries ago” Gerion admitted reluctantly. A look of understanding came to Gandalf’s eyes and Gerion continued to study the great tree wistfully.

 

“We maintain a watchtower in the Southern eves to keep a cautious eye on the Necromancer’s abode.”

 

Gandalf muttered something unintelligible under his breath and Gerion stepped closer to the oak and stroked its supple branches gently.

 

“No Elf in this kingdom is to approach Dol Guldur” Gerion said quietly, “To do so is to disobey a royal edict and risk banishment.”

 

When Gandalf made to reply, Gerion cut him off sharply.

 

“That is the law, Mithrandir. We are all bound to obey the King, regardless of whether we agree with him or not.”

 

He smoothed a new bud on one of the thicker branches  and turned away, “If you wish to change the King’s mind, you must do it yourself.” With that, Gerion resumed his pace, leaving Gandalf with no choice but to follow, his mind running through the new facts that just been revealed to him.

 

They continued their walk in silence, passing lush orchards and elegant houses, clear natural pools and wide stretches of farms for a good hour before the smaller settlements fell away and the main road opened up on a grand mansion that stood in the heart of a great clearing.

 

The great house was an outstanding  construction of carved wood, smooth stone and shining glass. Standing seven stories tall, Thranduil’s palace was built at the rear of the wide dene. Before it lay a clear blue lake that was fed from a bubbling river running into the dell from the mountains of Mirkwood that lay beyond the mansion. A number of smaller buildings were scattered around the King’s Hall including a large stable that housed dozens of fine Elven steeds, a well-built barracks where a full garrison of Elven soldiers dwelt and a modest smithy that was sending up a twisting column of black smoke. Dozens of Elves were bustling about the clearing, tending to horses, gathering fish, picking fruit and, carrying supplies and goods to the palace.

 

Gandalf took in the sights without comment; the estate looked much as it had upon his last visit. As he and Gerion walked past the shimmering blue waters of the lake, several of the fishing Elves glanced up at the Grey Wizard and muttered to each other. Gandalf turned his gaze away from them and continued on his course, coming to the great doors of the palace.

 

Carved from the implacable trunk of a great redwood, the doors were framed in the finest steel that the King’s smiths could fashion. Flowing designs ran along the solid red wood that seemed to shimmer in the dull orange light of the afternoon sun.

 

The great doors stood open for the Elves to carry out the daily business of the King, but a company of six guards stood beside the door, three to each side. The sentinels were clad in gleaming silver armour than was embossed with the pale blue swirls of the Woodland Elite Guard. Gandalf paused at the threshold of the palace, the actions of Captain Hausein fresh in his mind.

 

But Gerion nodded at the guards and they did not bar his passage, satisfied that Gandalf was a welcome guest in the lands of the Elves. The two passed into the Entrance Hall that was a great vaulted chamber with two spiral staircases that led from the wide foyer up to the second level of the manse. Radiant sunlight shone down into the chamber through a broad skylight mounted in the ceiling. The floor of the hall was made of a pristine marble that seemed to remain spotless no matter how many people stepped on it.

 

Additional guards stood at the foot of both staircases and as Gandalf ascended the marble stairs, he noticed even more sentinels stationed at platforms on the second floor, keeping an eye on all who entered the palace. The Grey Wizard raised an eyebrow at the numerous armed Elves keeping watch, but said nothing. The Wizard and the Elf rose through the palace swiftly, passing the kitchens and dining halls on the third floor, the Royal Armoury on the fourth floor and came to the doors of the audience chamber of the King on the fifth floor.

 

Unlike the doors below, the doors to the throne room were sealed shut with another company of silver-helmed guards standing watch. Gandalf moved to announce himself but Gerion raised a flat hand to forestall him. Stepping towards one of the guards that bore a command insignia, Gerion whispered a low command in Sindarin that Gandalf could barely hear. A moment later, the doors opened without any action from the guards, the silver signs on the doors glimmering oddly.

 

Gerion strode forward and Gandalf followed him into the chamber. The throne room was exactly as Gandalf remembered it, a long, wide chamber that had beautiful stained glass window on both sides. A rich green carpet led straight into the room, coming up to a raised dais and terminating at an intricately carved throne of pale beechwood. Dazzling gems were inlaid in the throne, brilliant emeralds shone on the armrests and a series of small diamonds shone with mesmerizing light on the backrest of the chair.

 

Upon the throne sat a tall Elf with flowing blonde hair and flawless alabaster skin. The Elf was dressed in rich forest-green robes that seemed to shimmer with an inner light. An elegant crown of pure silver embroidered with pale green emeralds rested on the Elven-King’s head and he gazed at his visitors with pale sky-blue eyes.

 

Gandalf and Gerion approached the King and the Elf-Lord immediately bowed deeply, inclining his head in obeisance and respect.

 

“My greetings, Your Highness,” Gerion said, returning to an upright posture, “I have brought Gandalf the Grey to the Royal Palace, as commanded.” He gestured to Gandalf who had not bowed to the King.

 

The ruler’s gaze fixed coolly on Gandalf and the Grey Wizard bowed reluctantly, “Greetings, King Thranduil.”

 

Thranduil’s thin lips turned up in a sardonic smile, “Welcome, Mithrandir,” he drawled, “What brings the Grey Wanderer to my halls?”

 

Gandalf frowned beneath his bushy beard and stood taller, “I have come to speak with you about urgent matters, My Lord,” he said gruffly, “There is a great threat facing your kingdom.”

 

Thranduil’s lower lip curled in a knowing smirk, “Ah yes, ill tidings of woe, no doubt.” The Elven-King leaned back on his throne, his amused smirk twisting his calm Elven features.

 

“It is true what the Northmen say,” Thranduil commented, turning a conspiratorial glance to Gerion, “Gandalf the Grey is ever a bringer of woe and troubles.” He turned his cold eyes back to Gandalf, “What embellished danger would you warn me of today, Gandalf Stormcrow?”

 

Gandalf’s lips twisted beneath his beard and he struggled to keep a firm grip on his temper.

 

“The evil in Dol Guldur is growing stronger,” he said in a serious tone, “The Necromancer grows ever bolder and is beginning to assault other lands. I have come to warn you of this and to urge you to rally your forces and drive this foul sorcerer away from your great forest.”

 

Thranduil’s expression grew sombre and he drew himself up on his throne with a regal dignity.

 

“The Necromancer’s power is confined to the southern part of the forest where he has long dwelt,” Thranduil replied, his voice grave, “Our lands are far removed from his vile grip and have remained safe from the shadow for many centuries.”

 

Gandalf blew out his breath in exasperation, “Your lands are not the only ones at risk,” he exclaimed in a raised voice, “The realm of Gondor is under assault by thousands of Orcs that were bred right under the eaves of Mirkwood.”

 

He gripped his staff in his right hand and began to pace back and forth, “The Nazgul have taken the city of Minas Ithil and are waging a fierce war on the capital city of Osgiliath.”

 

“How is this any of our concern?” Thranduil asked sharply, cutting off Gandalf’s impassioned speech curtly, “What becomes of the kingdoms of Men is of little consequence to me.”

 

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed at Thranduil’s dismissive comments and he muttered something indistinct into his beard. Then he raised his irascible gaze to the Elven-King again, “It matters because I suspect that the Nine inhabiting Minas Ithil are under the command of the Necromancer.”

 

Thranduil froze for a moment on his throne and his expression grew ashen.

 

Gandalf forged ahead while he had the Elven-King’s attention, “I believe that the Necromancer of Dol Guldur is really the Enemy in disguise!”

 

For a long moment the throne room was utterly silent, shock appearing on the face of Gerion and the two armored guards that stood either side of Thranduil’s throne. Then Thranduil rose from his throne, a stony look on his pale face.

 

“The Enemy was defeated, Mithrandir,” the Elven-King said in an icy tone, “On the plains of Gorgoroth, nearly two thousand years ago.”

 

Gandalf frowned, “You know as well as I do…”

 

“I was there!” Thranduil shouted, his voice echoing through the great chamber. The Elven-King was on his feet, his cold blue eyes gazing at Gandalf with restrained fury, “I fought in that final battle, Mithrandir. I lost my father in the war against the Enemy and I was there the day that Sauron the Abhorred was struck down by Elendil and Gil-galad and driven from the Circles of the World.”

 

The King of Mirkwood lowered himself back onto his throne, calm returning to his smooth features.

 

“The Dark Lord was destroyed and can never return,” he said, speaking more to the guards and Gerion than to Gandalf. “The Necromancer is a mere enchanter and these lies are nothing more than the delusional ramblings of a foolish old dotard.”

 

Gandalf’s eyes widened at the insult and he stepped forward in outrage, “Do not mock me!” he shouted, his voice resounding with a undertone of power. The guards and Gerion flinched in shock and a ghost of alarm crossed Thranduil’s face.

 

“Heed my words, Thranduil son of Oropher,” Gandalf said, his staff planted firmly on the marble floor. The old man’s frame seemed to blaze with a great inner light and he suddenly seemed to a great figure that filled the room.

 

“You know that the Enemy was defeated but not destroyed,” Gandalf said in a great voice, “He lost that which was his greatest weapon, but that One was not destroyed and as long as it remains in the Circles of the World, the Enemy shall endure and continue to exist.”

 

The guards and Gerion stepped backwards in awe while Thranduil rose to his feet with royal dignity, a new respect shining in his eyes.

 

The aura of power faded from Gandalf’s figure as quickly as it had appeared and then he was as he appeared once again, an old man leaning on his staff in weariness.

 

There was a silence of several minutes before Thranduil returned to his throne with a thoughtful expression on his face, “Perhaps there is some truth to what you speak, Mithrandir, the Elven-King allowed, “But you must be weary from your long journey.”

 

He turned to Gerion, “Show Mithrandir to one of the guest chambers so that he may rest.”

 

He looked back at Gandalf, “The evening meal shall be in two hours, Mithrandir. I would ask you to sup with me then and we shall discuss this matter in greater depth.”

 

Gandalf nodded in affirmation and let Gerion guide him out of the chamber without further discussion.

 

The Elf-Lord lead Gandalf up to the sixth floor where the private rooms of the King’s family were kept. Gerion showed Gandalf to a spacious guest room in the west wing of the mansion and then withdrew quickly, apparently too shocked by Gandalf’s grave revelations to remain in the Wizard’s company any longer than he had to.

 

Closing the door of the guest room behind him, Gandalf turned around and surveyed his temporary dwelling. A carved wooden couch with soft cushions lay against one wall and a large comfortable bed was set against the other while the wall directly ahead of Gandalf opened up on a small balcony that looked over the dell beyond.

 

Leaning his staff against the far wall, Gandalf doffed his peaked hat and set it down on the table by the bedside.  Pulling off his boots, the Grey Wizard collapsed on the large bed, exhaustion eating away at his senses. He had started out from Rivendell on horseback nearly two weeks ago but had lost his horse along with all his provisions while crossing the Old Ford three days ago. As a result, the Grey Wizard had spent several long hungry days traversing the distance of the Ninglor Fields to Mirkwood. His stomach rumbled at the thought of the dinner that was still several hours away.

 

Letting out an exhausted breath, Gandalf lay back on the soft mattress and closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to rest. He had managed to make an impact on Thranduil in their earlier conversation and he hoped that he would be able to further convince the Elven-King over the course of their dinner. If he could rally the Wood-Elves to gather their strength and take the fight to the Necromancer, the Shadow would suffer a serious blow. Yawning, Gandalf laid back and let sleep take him into its inviting grasp. His troubles would still be there when he awoke again.

 

The Grey Wizard slept for nearly two hours and he awoke to a loud knock on the door.

 

“Mithrandir?” Gerion called through the door, “His Highness is preparing to dine and requests that you join him.”

 

Gandalf stumbled out of the bed and nearly fell over from disorientation. Clutching the wall for support, the Grey Wizard shouted back, “Ah yes, I shall be there in a moment.”

 

Steadying himself, Gandalf quickly pulled on his boots and took a moment to wash his hands and face with the cool water that lay in a low bowl on a side table. Taking up his staff again, the Grey Wizard made for the door and hesitated, debating whether to don his hat again. Then he opened the door and joined Gerion outside, leaving his peaked cap in the room. Elrond of Rivendell had informed Gandalf many times that it was very impolite to wear hats to any sort of meal and the last thing the Grey Wizard wanted was to offend his host when his goal was to secure Thranduil’s cooperation.

 

Gerion led Gandalf to the stairway but instead of descending to the large dining hall on the second floor, the Elf-Lord left Gandalf up to the seventh floor and into the private apartments of the Elven-King. The entire floor was comprised of Thranduil’s personal chambers and they passed through a well-appointed parlour and entered what had to have been the King’s Dining Room.

 

The chamber was made of the same white marble as the rest of the house and in the center of the room sat a gracefully fashioned rectangular table made of polished oak. Thranduil sat at the head of the table, clad in less formal robes of deep russet red, his silver crown still resting on his head.

 

The Elven-King gestured to a high-backed chair to his right and Gandalf crossed the room and took the seat, resting his staff against the closest wall.

 

“Have the food brought in,” Thranduil commanded Gerion, and the Elf bowed and exited the room. A few moments later, the doors of the dining room opened again and Gerion entered the chamber, followed by four young Elves bearing platters of warm, succulent food. Gandalf’s mouth began to water at the savory scents that were filling the air and the servants gracefully laid the dishes in front of Thranduil and his guest.

 

The main course was a roasted duck basted in pungent gravy. Dishes with freshly baked bread and spiced potatoes were set beside the main dish along with a platter of glistening greens and legumes. One of the servants set a bottle of wine on the table near Thranduil and with a nod from the King, filled both diners glasses with the ruby-red liquid.

 

Once the servants were finished laying out the meal, Thranduil dismissed them and Gerion with a gesture. Only after they were alone did Thranduil turn to Gandalf and offered a small smile.

 

“Do not stand on ceremony, Mithrandir,” he said, “Please partake of this fine meal that my servants have prepared with great care.”

 

Gandalf smiled and sliced a small piece of the duck from the whole and placed it in his mouth with a silver fork. Chewing for a moment, he smacked his lips in approval.

 

“The finest duck I’ve had in centuries,” he proclaimed and began to tuck with the relish of a famished man.

 

“I shall pass your compliments to the chefs,” Thranduil said and took a mouthful of duck himself.

 

For several minutes both Wizard and King ate with relish and it was only when the majority of the duck and potatoes were consumed, that Gandalf set his fork down and looked at Thranduil.

“Truly a fine meal,” he praised, “Would you not be able to enjoy more feasts such as this if the Necromancer was defeated and cast out of your forest?”

 

Thranduil swallowed a mouthful of greens and gave Gandalf a sidelong glance. Reaching for his wineglass, Thranduil raised the crystal vessel to his lips and drank a long draught of the crimson liquid.

 

“I have considered your words, Mithrandir,” the King said cautiously, “But to drive the Necromancer from the forest would require the muster of armies that the Wood-Elves have not gathered since the War of the Last Alliance.”

 

He took a small roll from the dish and toyed with it on his plate for a moment.

 

“My lands are a full two hundred leagues from the Necromancer’s Tower,” he continued, “The threat that the sorcerer poses to us is minimal.”

 

Gandalf finished chewing a potato and set his fork down, “The threat may be minimal for now, but it is growing. The darkness in that fortress wishes to rule all of Middle-Earth and it will not rest until all lands lie under the Shadow!”

 

Thranduil refilled his glass and took another sip of wine, “So you say, Mithrandir.”

 

He drained the glass and continued, “But I have neither heard nor seen any proof that this Necromancer is the Enemy returned.”

 

The Elven-King placed his glass back on the solid oak table and gazed out the clear-paned window set in the far wall that looked over the dell that was illuminated by the clean light of the Moon.

 

“If the Necromancer were truly Sauron returned, would not all of the forest lie under the Shadow already? Nay Mithrandir, I do not believe that this Necromancer is the Enemy. Mayhap he is one of the Ringwraiths who survived their master’s fall.”

 

Thranduil took a final bit of his duck and dropped his napkin over his plate.

 

“I have been within sight of Dol Guldur,” he said, “I have felt the strength of the Necromancer and it is a pale shadow of the might of Sauron. I led my people against the armies of Mordor an age ago and I remember all too well the power of the Dark Lord.”

 

The Elven-King looked Gandalf directly in the eye, “I have judged this matter soundly, Mithrandir and I will not risk the lives of my people against the evil that lives in Dol Guldur.”

 

He rose from the table and walked towards the window and gestured to the peaceful dene that lay beyond.

 

“We live in peace and prosperity, Mithrandir. I will not violate that peace by embarking on a foolish crusade to destroy an evil far removed from my lands merely because a Wizard commands me so.”

 

When Gandalf tried to reply, Thranduil cut him off sharply, “That is my final word on this matter, Mithrandir. I will not change my mind.”

 

Gandalf glared at the King angrily and then turned back to his dinner, his brow furrowing in consternation.

 

Thranduil returned to his seat and was clapping his hands for the servants to bring in dessert when Gerion raced into the room, his face pale with concern.

 

“My Lord!” he cried out, “Prince Legolas has returned from the southern borders gravely injured. He says that Tower of Serien has been captured by the Necromancer!”

 

Thranduil’s mouth fell open in shock and he sprang to his feet at once, “Take me to my son!” he shouted and Gerion quickly turned and led the King out of the hall.

 

Gandalf leapt to his feet as well and snatching up his staff, he followed the two Elves closely, aware that this sudden event might help to change Thranduil’s attitude towards the Necromancer.

 

They hastened down the stairs and came to a stop at the second floor where Gerion led them to a spacious room that served as the palace infirmary. Thranduil rushed into the room first and upon spying his son lying down on one of the sickbeds, hurried to the Prince’s side.

 

Gandalf stayed a few meters away, allowing the King and his son privacy. His gaze swept across the rest of the room, spying a second Elf lying further in on another sickbed. The Elf was considerably younger than the Prince of Mirkwood, with bright green eyes and pale blonde hair that was matted with sweat and filth from their desperate flight from the captured tower.

 

Walking over to the young Elf, Gandalf looked down on him with sympathy and compassion. An Elf-maiden was sitting by the young man’s bedside, wiping his brow and administering healing salves to his wounds. Laying his hand on the young Elf’s brow, Gandalf closed his eyes for a moment and whispered a Word in a strange tongue. The Elf’s body was surrounded by a faint glow for a brief moment and then it faded. Almost immediately, the patient began to stir, his sleepy eyes blinking open to awareness. Nodding at the young Elf’s returned vigor, Gandalf turned away to the other patient in the room.

 

Stepping closer to the prone Prince and his anxious father, Thranduil’s concerned words began to filter into Gandalf’s ears.

 

“You are injured,” Thranduil exclaimed, “Lie back and let the healers do their work!”

 

Legolas pushed his father’s hand away gently but firmly, “I am only mildly injured, Father. Kielen was wounded by a warg in our flight from the South.”

 

“He has been healed,” Gandalf interjected, “He needs merely to rest for a few days and he will be fully restored.”

 

Legolas gave the Grey Wizard a look of gratitude and managed to slide up to a sitting position on the sickbed.

 

“What exactly happened to you and your companion?” Gandalf inquired, “Gerion said something about a tower in the South being overrun?”

 

Legolas nodded and looked at his father, “We arrived at the Tower of Serien to relieve Captain Navari’s force, but upon our arrival we found the tower empty for all of Navari’s soldiers had been slaughtered by the spiders.”

 

A look of anxiety crossed Thranduil’s face and Legolas continued, “I ordered two of my warriors to bring swift word back to you for reinforcements.”

 

Anger mixed with grief on Legolas’s weary face, “We found Meilen and Eeinen’s bodies in the forest in our escape. The spiders ambushed them on their way back here.”

 

Gandalf shook his head sorrowfully and whispered a prayer to the Valar for the spirits of the slain Elves.

 

“I ordered Captain Orcin to have our company secure the tower, thinking that we could hold the Tower until reinforcements arrived.” A look of self-deprecation crossed the young Prince’s face, “I was a fool,” he said bitterly, “I thought our company could hold the tower against foes that had overwhelmed a force twice the size of ours.”

 

He raised his head to meet Thranduil’s inscrutable gaze, “The spiders attacked the tower at nightfall. And they were not alone.”

 

Gandalf frowned, “What do you mean?” he asked, “Did they have other fell beasts with them?”

 

Legolas shook his head, “The spiders were joined by a party of Orcs.”

 

Gandalf’s eyes widened and Thranduil drew his breath in a sharp hiss.

 

“They overran our defenses in short order and killed almost all my warriors,” Legolas said, his voice going low with sadness, “Only Kielen and I managed to flee the tower as it fell.”

 

The Prince looked at his father with a hint of defiance, “I wanted to stay and fight to the end with my comrades, but I knew you would have wanted me to return and bring word.”

 

Thranduil nodded, “You did well Legolas.” A look of sympathy crossed his face, “We will of course mourn the brave warriors that died fighting for our realm. He reached out and patted his son on the shoulder affectionately, “But I am very thankful to the Valar that you were spared.”

 

Legolas smiled back at his father for a moment, and then his gaze hardened again.

 

“We cannot let this intrusion go unpunished,” the Prince said angrily, “We must rally our army at once and march for Dol Guldur at first light.” He made to swing out of the sickbed, “I will lead them there myself and avenge all of our fallen comrades.”

 

Thranduil’s arm shot out like a striking serpent and held his son in place, preventing him from leaving the sickbed.

 

“Absolutely not!” the Elven-King declared, his voice ringing out in the infirmary like a high clear bell.

 

Legolas looked up at his father with surprise, “But Father, we…”

 

“The Necromancer’s reach falls far short of our lands,” Thranduil said firmly, “The only reason you were attacked was because our forces were encroaching on the border of his domain.”

 

Legolas opened his mouth to reply but Thranduil cut him off with a sharp gesture.

 

“I will not risk the lives of our best and brightest against a threat that lies far beyond our borders.’

 

A look of incredulity crossed Gandalf’s aged face, “My Lord, you must listen to reason.”

 

Thranduil turned towards the Grey Wizard and Gandalf forged ahead, “The Prince’s account proves that the Necromancer is a growing threat to your lands. You must rally your forces and drive this evil from the forest once and for all!”

 

Thranduil’s face grew glacially calm, “I have spoken,” he said coolly, “And my word is final.”

 

Legolas struggled out of bed and got to his feet shakily, “Gandalf is right,” he said forcefully, “We cannot let the Necromancer continue to grow in strength.”

 

Concern mixed with anger on Thranduil’s face and he extended a finger to his son, “You are not King yet,” he said curtly, “It is not your place to determine the course of this kingdom.”

 

When Legolas tried to protest again, Thranduil drew himself up to his full height and glared at his son, “You are my son and you will do as I command,” he shouted, “Now get back into bed and rest. I will not risk losing you to the Shadow.”

 

Legolas’s body shook with defiance for a moment and then he reluctantly obeyed, returning to the sickbed without further dispute.

 

Gandalf would not be so easily subdued however.

 

“My Lord, this is madness!” The Grey Wizard struck his staff on the marble floor with a loud clack and drew himself up to his full height, looking Thranduil right in the eyes.

 

“You cannot let the Shadow grow any stronger. The Enemy will assault your lands. Perhaps not today, but eventually his reach will grow to your kingdom, unless you stand against him now!”

 

“Enough!” Thranduil bellowed his fair visage marred with outrage at the outright defiance of his edict.

 

“You are not a King or a Lord of any land, Mithrandir,” the Elven-King hissed furiously, “You have no subjects to care for nor any lands to maintain.”

 

He thrust a slim finger directly at the Grey Wizard, “I will not allow you to drive my kingdom to war with your incessant warmongering and dissent.”

 

The Elven-King’s voice rang out in a clear cry that carried through the entire palace, “Guards!” he shouted and a quartet of the silver-armored sentinels charged into the infirmary in seconds.

 

“Seize Gandalf the Grey and escort him from this kingdom at once!”

 

Gandalf sputtered in shock at Thranduil’s sudden command and gripped his staff tightly as the four guards approached their swords at the ready, yet wary of the Grey Wizard who commanded power far beyond their ken.

 

For a moment Gandalf contemplated offering resistance and then swiftly dismissed the idea. To fight Thranduil’s guards would achieve nothing save to draw the Elven-King’s ire. Moreover, while Gandalf could overpower four Elves without much difficulty, he knew that there were hundreds of guards in the dell and that the final outcome would be the same.

 

Sighing at Thranduil’s unreasonable response, Gandalf lowered his staff and allowed two of the guards to seize him by the arms and guide him towards the doorway.

 

“Escort him straight to the edge of our borders,” Thranduil commanded the guards, his cold gaze fixed directly on Gandalf.

 

“You would do well not to return to the Woodland realm for at least a century, Mithrandir;” Thranduil declared harshly, “Perhaps by then you will have learned not to question the will of a King in his sovereign realm.”

 

Gandalf shook his head and said nothing, allowing the guards to lead him away without a second glance.

 

The guards released Gandalf after they left the palace, but they remained clustered close to him, making sure he was following their lead out of the dell and back towards the main gate through which he had entered mere hours earlier. The party moved at a swift pace and within an hour, the gate was in sight.

 

As they reached the great barrier, several Elven sentries approached them, including the haughty captain that had initially denied Gandalf entry.

 

“By order of the King, Gandalf the Grey is banished from Greenwood,” the leader of the four guards said.

 

Captain Hausein frowned, but nodded and called to the sentinels to open the gate. As the barrier split inwards without any visible agency from the Elves, the guards began to push Gandalf towards to the threshold and the shadowy path that lay beyond. As he was about to cross the boundary, Gandalf abruptly stopped in his tracks.

 

“Wait!” he cried out.

 

The four guards that surrounded him drew their swords menacingly, and their leader spoke in a firm tone.

 

“You are to leave our lands at once, Mithrandir;” he said curtly, “We shall remove you by force, if we must.”

 

“I have no supplies,” Gandalf said humbly, “Please, I simply ask for some provender for my long journey out of the forest.”

 

The four guards ignored the Grey Wizard’s entreaty and moved to thrust him over the threshold when a clear voice cried out into the night.

 

“Stop!” Captain Hausein commanded, approaching the small group. His gaze fell upon the four guards with disapproval, “It is not our way to turn travelers out on the road without food or water. Such is an act of cruelty and malice.”

 

He barked a command in Sindarin to one of his subordinates, who dashed into one of the guard houses that lay near the inner wall of the gate. He emerged a moment later carrying a small traveling sack, which he quickly turned over to the Captain.

 

Hausein approached Gandalf with a hint of compassion on his stern face.

 

“I know not what insult you have paid the King that he has seen fit to banish you from our lands, but I would not see you starve to death on your journey home.”

 

The Elf handed the satchel to Gandalf, who took it graciously.

 

“My thanks, Captain Hausein,” the Grey Wizard said. Hausein nodded at him, at which point the guards ushered Gandalf out through the open gate and onto the smooth paved stones of the Old Forest Road.

 

“Do not return here for a hundred years, Gandalf the Grey,” Captain Hausein as the gate was sealing shut behind Gandalf, “For your welcome shall be colder than the Forodwaith!”

 

The great gate sealed itself without a sound and the guards fell silent, keeping a watchful eye on Gandalf. With a great sigh, the Grey Wizard slung the sack of provender over his shoulder and took up his staff. Turning towards the West, he began to march back the way he had come, shaking his head at the utter failure of his mission. As he trailed away from the Woodland Realm, Gandalf ran a hand through his hair and realized absently that he had left his peaked hat behind in Thranduil’s palace. Muttering an indistinct curse under his breath, Gandalf the Grey shuffled onwards, heading into the shadowy depths of Mirkwood.


End file.
